


The Bane

by zmethos



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-09-07 03:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: Early in their partnership (~1994), Mulder and Scully tackle the strange disappearances of patients from a hospital in Texas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a story I wrote back and forth with my best friend back in 1994, setting it early in _The X-Files_. Later, after cleaning it up and filling in some details, I turned it into "The Bane" and it was published in _Texas Revelations: Texas Extra_ in March 1997. It also became the basis for my undergraduate thesis project, a television spec script based on this story.

He was standing at the edge of the forest—we're always hanging around some forest—squinting up at the sky like he expected something to fall from the gods and land at his feet. Sometimes I think he does.

"Look at those birds," he finally said.

I tried. But I didn't get much of a chance to see anything because he started walking, black trench coat flapping at the heels of his spit-shined shoes, late morning mist still rising from the soft, dewy ground.

I followed him into the woods.

He stopped some feet ahead of me to kneel and squint again, at the ground this time. I couldn't tell what had caught his eye, and I knew he wouldn't tell me until he had already concluded its significance. As usual, he had only given me the bare bones of the case we were there to investigate; the rest would follow at his leisure.

Bored, I watched the birds circle. The sky was a bright, clear blue, and the dampness held in by the giant pines around us made the woods hot and humid. Finally he called me over. The birds flew away.

"Take a look at this."

He's always telling me to look at something. Half the time I don't even know what I'm looking at.

I walked over. The dirt in front of him ran in two uneven grooves, both going in the same direction. "It looks like something was dragged through here," I said. He only nodded. "Another body?" I asked.

"I don't know," he admitted as he rose, "but it's something."

He stalked off deeper into the woods.

We walked along for a while, following the grooves. I could see where the plant life had been bent and crushed, all in the same general direction. I paused for a moment to examine some of the broken stalks, reasoning that if anything was out there, there might be trace evidence along the way. He just kept walking. And then I heard, "Scully, come take a look at this."

Sighing, I walked to where he stood with his back to me. The the smell hit me and I saw it.

It appeared to have been a middle-aged man, although there certainly was margin for error. Corpses don't usually bother me; medical school prepared me for just about anything, or so I'd thought. I don't suppose anything could really have braced me for some of the things Mulder manages to dig up, including the bizarre and exceedingly smelly bodies.

"Same as the others," he reported. "Looks like the animals got to him; probably accounts for the birds." He turned and looked at me for the first time that day. "You okay?"

I nodded.

"Let's get back to the car," he said.

"I think it's safe to assume that someone in the medical field is doing this," I said when we reached the shoulder of the road, where our rental was parked. Quiet, no traffic, but then, East Texas isn't exactly over-populated.

"Maybe," he said as he waited for a link-up on his cellular phone.

"What, you think it's werewolves?" But he wasn't listening; he was calling the sheriff. I wondered what would happen when the locals found out the FBI had entered their house through the back door and without knocking first. It wasn't going to be pretty.

"We have disappearances from the hospital," I pressed. "Mutilated bodies in the woods—"

He shrugged as he slipped his phone back into his coat pocket and leaned against the car, staring off down the road and ignoring me.

"Mulder," I warned. He turned and gave me that innocent look mean to bait me. That's when I knew. "It's an X-File."

"Pull my briefcase off the back seat. The file is on the top."

"X marks the spot," I muttered. Everything is an X-File. Wherever we go, whatever we do, even if the case isn't ours... I never had this problem before I met him. He's an X-File waiting to happen.

I yanked out the briefcase and began to flip through the file. I knew I wouldn't actually have to read it; in his excitement, he always summarizes for me.

"There are seven different cases like this one," he said before I'd even scanned the first page. "Patients disappear from hospitals only to be found mutilated--no, dissected--somewhere else. Here," he flipped the pages for me then pointed, "a small clinic in Nebraska. All the patients disappeared and even some doctors and orderlies."

I skimmed the part he'd pointed to and said, "But this isn't an X-File. They found the doctor who did it."

He shook his head and fished sunflower seeds out of a pocket. "Inconclusive evidence. The local authorities were under pressure to close the case."

I sighed and shut the folder. "Mulder, more likely than not, this is just a sick doctor playing lab with some unfortunate invalids."

But he just gave me his spookiest smile and said, "I don't deal in the likely."

"Okay..." I waited.

"The previous mutilations happened about five years ago, and in each of the areas there were increased reports of UFO activity."

"So? More crackpots come out of the woodwork when things like that happen." I shot him a meaningful glance, but if he understood, he ignored it. "Anyway, that was five years ago. This is now."

"They're back," he sang softly.

I rolled my eyes. "How about, they're here," I said as the sheriff and his entourage passed us and rolled to a stop ahead of our car.

After the East Pine officers had gathered the information for their reports, and the coroner had hauled the body away, and Sheriff Carl Daimon had made it clear how much he didn't want or need the FBI around, we went back to the car.

"Hungry?" my partner asked.

"Yes," I admitted, if reluctantly. Mulder has a knack for finding the smallest, strangest places to eat in any town we visit. And this time was no different.

A short drive later we were walking into the Burger Booth, a badly lit 50s diner that smelled of grease. We found one of the so-named booths (cracked red and yellow vinyl), and as we browsed the ketchup-spotted menus, I asked, "You don't honestly believe aliens are involved here, do you?"

"At the Burger Booth? You _have_ opened up to extreme possibilities."

"Mulder, be serious."

"Anything can happen, Scully." And his expression told me he _was_ serious.

Still, in the interest of taking a logical stance, I suggested we take a look at the hospital after dinner, and he agreed. We spent that evening asking questions and surveying empty rooms once occupied by the patients who had disappeared—and reappeared in parts and pieces elsewhere. A necessary if fruitless exercise that was so dull it made the hotel seem like a good time.

Hotels in small towns invariably have leaky faucets, bad lighting, and paper-thin walls. Some of the better ones have televisions with bad reception and air conditioners that are all noise and no air. Not East Pine, Texas, however.

I was so tired by the time we got in that I thought I'd go to bed right away. But after a lukewarm shower (hot water also absent from the hotel's list of accommodations), I found I was too tired to sleep. So I worked on my laptop until my eyes felt heavy then turned out the little bit of light the bedside lamp provided and laid down in the dark.

That's when I heard it.

In the next room.

Mulder was talking.

My partner, I have learned, often talks in his sleep when he's under any great amount of stress. Sometimes listening to him mumble puts me to sleep; I can never understand what he's saying, but the sound is like white noise that helps me doze. But this time I could understand. He was speaking clearly. Because someone was in the room with him.

I listened.

A gravelly man's voice asked, "She's asleep? You're sure?"

Mulder hesitated only slightly before answering, but it was enough to tell me he knew I was awake. "I'm sure."

He trusted me.

"You need to let this one go," he other man said.

"What? Why?"

"You've seen the files from the previous cases, but there's something you haven't..."

I heard shuffling movement. Then Mulder asked, "What's this?"

"Jon Gamos and Peter Riecher were the two agents first assigned to one of these cases. Kentucky. They'd worked together for six years, but while investigating this case, Reicher pulled a gun on his partner and killed him. He left insisting it hadn't been him, something had possessed his body. Ended up committing suicide. The FBI has never assigned any such case since. Until now. And it's not because they like you."

After a long silence, Mulder asked, "Are you saying something like this is going to happen to me and Scully?"

"I'm saying it's not worth the risk. I've worked too hard—_you've_ worked too hard—to chance everything on something so trivial."

"This is my job," said Mulder. "I'm not going to let them scare me now. I've seen worse. This is nothing."

The stranger sighed. "Mulder, sometimes I fear you'll be the death of you." I could hear steps moving toward the door. "If things start to go south... Get out. Fast."

The door opened and closed quietly enough that if I had been asleep, I'd never have heard it. Resisting the urge to rush out and confront the man, or storm into Mulder's room and demand explanations, I found a semi-comfortable position on the lumpy bed and drifted into sleep.

Only to be rousted the next morning by a couple of crazy cops and a blond man in a gray suit. I was sluggish and didn't feel like moving. But I didn't feel like protesting, either, which was odd. Usually I do.

My medical mind began to warm its engine. _Drugged._

"Cuff her and get her into the car," the blond man instructed the officers.

I hastily attempted to assemble my wits through the fog in my brain. "What's going on?" I demanded. Even as I sat up, one of the officers slapped handcuffs onto my wrists. The other urged me to my feet, nudging me toward the door. I dragged my feet, if only partially on purpose, and looked left and right. "Where's Mulder? What have you done with my partner?"

One of the cops grinned sadistically. "You're the one that did it to him, sweetheart."

Belatedly, I tried to pull free. "I'm a federal agent."

The blond man held up a hand and the officers let go, though they stayed close; I would swear I could feel the breath of one of them on my neck. But all my attention was on the blond man; he seemed oddly familiar.

"Finler," I said as the name popped into place. "John Finler, isn't it?" We had worked together a handful of times, not closely enough to be considered friends, but at least established acquaintances. "What's going on?"

"It's James," Finler said. "And I was hoping you could tell me."

"What do you mean? Where's Mulder?"

"The hospital."

I tried to make sense of that. "To examine the body from yesterday? He needs me for that. Why didn't he wake me up?"

Finler grimaced. "I hate to have to do this, Agent Scully, but you know the routine." He pulled his identification from somewhere inside his suit and flipped it open for my perusal. "My name is Federal Agent James Finler, and I am here to escort you back to Washington D.C. pending trial for the attempted murder of your partner Fox Mulder."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind I wrote this when I was in high school...

Being booked was the most humiliating experience of my life. Fingerprints, personal effects, and the ever popular mug shots... At least someone had been thoughtful enough to bring me something to wear other than my nightshirt. Of course, that meant they'd gone through my things.

I sat in the holding cell and tried to recall the night before, but all I could remember was the lumpy mattress and the flashing light from the neon sign outside. Only then did it occur to me to wonder whether Mulder was okay. Did he really think I'd tried to kill him? He was probably more worried about being in the hospital...

The hospital!

Where people were disappearing and turning up as chipmunk chow in the woods.

Swallowing the bile that rose to my mouth, I went to my cell door to demand my release. But Finler saved me the trouble.

"Your partner is asking to see you," he told me as he unlocked my cage. I began to step out but he shook his head and fished cuffs from somewhere inside his suit.

I took a deep breath and offered my wrists. The less I protested, the sooner I could save Mulder.

xxxx

He was sitting up in bed and appeared to be all right for someone who had supposedly come close to dying the night before. But the bruising around his neck looked serious.

"Usually I'm the one getting you out of jail," I said. Finler and two of his cop cronies hovered near the door. When Mulder didn't respond—very unlike him not to have a snappy retort—I asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." His voice, though, was hoarse from the damage to his windpipe. "You've looked better, though."

Ah, there it was. What passed for humor from Mulder.

"I've been better and not much worse," I admitted, lifting my wrists to show off my jewelry.

Mulder turned immediately to Finler. "Uncuff her."

"I don't think—"

"Uncuff her!"

Finler reluctantly complied, but the cops drew closer, too. Mulder motioned for me to come closer to his bed, and when I stepped forward, I thought the officers might suffer synchronized heart attacks.

"Dana," Mulder said softly, "I know you didn't do it."

_For God's sake._ "Then why don't you tell _them_ that?" My emphatic hissing caused my escort to shift uncomfortably behind me.

"Because you technically did do it. It was you, but it wasn't _you_."

I was beginning to see why they thought I'd strangled him; I certainly had motive. "What led you to this brilliant conclusion?" I asked.

"When you came to my door last night, you called me by my first name."

I considered. He had a point. His first name is ridiculous and difficult to say with a straight face. And the one time I'd called him by his name, he'd asked me not to. I hadn't done it since.

But it was a moot point. "Mulder, they're not going to accept that as evidence of my innocence. Meanwhile, my fingerprints and..." I reflexively looked down at my hands and wondered if any of Mulder's skin was under my nails.

"Then the only way to clear you is to solve this case. I know you were listening last night; there was a case just like—"

I shook my head. "It's not our case anymore."

"But _I'm_ in the hospital. I can—"

"I know. And we've got to get you out of here before something else happens to you."

"I'm staying," he said. "This is the best place to be to see what's really going on."

"Mulder, that's crazy! I'm scheduled to fly back to D.C. tomorrow morning, and as soon as you're well enough, they're going to send you home, too."

He grinned in a way that told me he did not plan to follow instructions. Finler must have seen it, too, because he stepped forward and said, "I think you've said enough." The handcuffs reappeared. When Mulder scowled, Finler told him, "When she's in my custody, she will be confined according to protocol."

Mulder didn't argue, but as we were leaving, he said, "Scully, wait, I have something for you."

I turned and he handed me something he had pulled out of the drawer of the small table beside his bed. "They put bibles in here, just like in hotels. Comforting, isn't it?"

"Mulder, I don't—"

But as he shoved the book into my hands, I felt something else—something lighter—tickle my palm. A quick peek showed a glint of gold.

My necklace.

I gave him a questioning look—surely my necklace should be evidence?—but he only smiled. I slipped the flimsy chain with its gold cross into my pocket and handed the bible back. "You need it more than I do," I said as the cops finally got impatient and tugged me away.

xxxx

"So what happened last night at the hotel? The official story?" I asked Finler. The two police officers had been called off elsewhere and had driven off in their own patrol car, leaving me to ride in Finler's rental. He at least trusted me enough to ride in the front seat. The handcuffs, however, stayed.

"The local police got a call this morning from a hotel manager who said one of his guests was trying to kill the guy she arrived with. The police arrived, had an M.E. sedate you once they pulled you off your partner, and when they found your I.D. they placed a call to Washington."

"Did either I or Mulder say anything?"

"Not on the record."

I sighed and sank back into the seat. "Looks like the evidence is pretty damning."

"You're not saying you didn't do it!"

I jumped at his sudden volume; he'd been so quiet and staid. "I didn't." When he didn't respond, I said, "You've worked with me. Do you see me as the kind of person to..." I didn't fill it in.

"Well, from what people say about Spooky, maybe he had it coming. Not," Finler stressed, "that I can condone it. Just sympathize."

A desire to defend Mulder flared in me like something hot, but I tamped it down. Antagonizing Finler, alienating even that little bit of sympathy, would get me nowhere. "When does the plane leave?" I asked.

"Nine a.m. sharp."

"That gives me a little less than twenty-four hours."

"For what?"

"To prove my innocence."

I watched his jaw clench and unclench as he drove. He knew what I was suggesting. "I could lose my job."

"I have a lot more on the line," I pointed out.

We drove a while longer. Then he asked, "Where to?"

"Back to the hospital. I need to examine the body we found yesterday."

"Someone else is handling this case now," Finler reminded me. But he turned the car around anyway.

xxxx

The coroner had identified what was left as George McPheers, and arrangements had already been made to send him over to the funeral parlor. Finler waited outside while I slipped into the morgue, where McPheers was laid out and covered, waiting for transport. I peeled back the sheet.

McPheers, I could see, had been cut to ribbons before the wildlife ever got around to chewing on him. The medical precision in the slashes was evident, but the slashes themselves appeared to be random. As though whoever had diced him up hadn't been sure where to look for... whatever they were looking for.

A glint of silver distracted me. A plain silver band circled McPheers' right ring finger. Not a wedding band then, but something about it... I found myself transfixed. So I slipped it off McPheers and into my pocket.

xxxx

"Mulder, I've got something I want you to look at."

He blinked. He looked like he'd just woken up. "Scully? What are you doing here?"

"Finler is—" I gestured at the door. Finler was keeping his distance so as to maintain plausible deniability. "Look at this," I said, my brain running faster than my mouth. I took the ring from my pocket and held it up for his inspection. My fingers felt numb from the contact.

"A ring?" Mulder asked. "Scully—"

But suddenly I understood. "No, Fox, it's—"

Something in my mind that was still functioning properly recognized the mistake and tried to fix it. "I mean..." But the numbness was spreading, like the kind of drug that knocks you unconscious. And something far darker lay under my rational self.

_So what if he doesn't like the name? Remember how hurt and insulted you were when he laughed and told you not to call him that? He calls you by your first name. Call him what you want. Do what you want._

_Put the ring on his finger._

But my conscious mind pinged back: _If you put that ring on his finger, they'll do to Mulder what they did to George McPheers._

Who the hell were they?

Mulder's voice filtered through. "Dana?"

I felt nauseous. "It's a tag," I said. "It's how they choose."

He didn't ask how I knew, just picked up the ball and ran. "Then someone in the hospital is either aiding them freely or being influenced to tag patients."

His voice went muffled in my head, and I started toward the bed.

_Put the ring on his finger_ now_!_

"Dana, stop," Mulder said. He flung back his blankets and got out of bed. "It isn't you. Someone or something has you, but I know you're in there and you can hear me."

I hesitated just long enough for Mulder to pull the blanket off his bed and throw it over me.

Something in me went wild then, snarling and shrieking as Mulder pinned my arms against me by grabbing me tightly around the waist. I thrashed and clawed, and heard Finler say, "What's going on in here?"

"Get the ring out of her hand!" Mulder snapped. He made the mistake of lifting me slightly off the ground, which allowed me to kick, if blindly, making me harder to hold onto. The blanket began to slip.

"Don't touch it with your bare hands," Mulder said as Finler snatched at my arm. I tossed my head this way and that, sensing freedom as the blanket slackened. Finally, I caught sight of Finler, who froze.

"Her eyes..."

"Never mind that!" said Mulder.

I aimed another kick but Mulder hauled me backward so that Finler was out of range. Snapping to, Finler took the corner of Mulder's bedsheet and pulled it off the bed, then captured my flailing hand and the ring.

Immediately the numbness began to subside.

I found myself faced with a wary Finler, myself still suspended some inches above the floor. Mulder seemed hesitant to let me go.

I couldn't honestly blame him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting in the trauma room, Finler and I found ourselves confronted by the two new agents who'd taken over the case. Herbert Bolan was a black man large enough to make anyone think twice about crossing him; Darwin Yates was what I could only describe as "puffy" and "pasty." And he wasn't any taller than me, which is saying something.

"This investigation was handed to us, and you—" Bolan thrust a finger in Finler's direction. Beside me, Finler flinched. "Decide to break the rules, which allows her—" The finger swung my way. "To make another attempt on her partner's life!"

"I made my statement," Finler said with a surprisingly steady voice.

"What's done is done," I added, and Finler looked at me like he'd rather I kept quiet. I chose not to. "Finler _saw_ that I wasn't myself. Whatever is in that ring..." The ring that had been bagged and sent immediately to forensics, though what a small-town Texas lab could do was questionable.

Mulder strolled in looking fresh and tidy after having discharged himself from the hospital and going back to the hotel for a shower and a suit. And, I noted in his left hand, a file.

Lord help us.

"Gentlemen," Mulder said with a nod at Bolan and Yates. Apparently he planned to play this friendly. He waved the file folder, and I rolled my eyes. "The lab reports and photos of previous victims." He paused. "Well, the ones they found."

Bolan reached for the file, but Mulder held back. "Let's share," he said and flipped the folder open and began handing off photos to Bolan and Yates, who to my amusement winced at the images.

"Rings on a number of the victims," Mulder pointed out.

"Could be the killer's trademark," said Yates.

"Then why the strange effect on Scully?" Mulder asked.

"There is no evidence—" Yates began.

"Witnesses," Mulder said with a look at Finler. After a moment, Finler gave a small nod.

"Her eyes were... They went red, almost like an albino." This time Finler's voice quavered slightly.

"We need the lab report for the ring," Bolan pronounced. "Then we'll see."

xxxx

Two cups of coffee and a long, uncomfortable silence later, a bony, bearded man in a lab coat that looked two sizes too big flung open the door. His badge identified him as Jack Mead. "Sirs, and, er..." He blinked at me. "I think we need to discuss... If you'll just follow me..." He turned and left.

I glanced at Mulder, who shrugged. "Follow the white rabbit," he said.

We filed out and ended up crowded into a service elevator that took us down to the labs. "You guys must be well funded," I remarked as we passed well-lit facilities.

Mulder leaned in so only I could hear. "But by whom? The taxpayers of East Pine, Texas don't make enough for this."

Mead ushered us into a conference room at the end of the hall. We took seats in subconscious herd mentality, all clustered at one end of the long table, but also divided by loyalties with Mulder and I on one side and Bolan and Yates on the other. Finler wavered before choosing a seat one away from me.

Mead rounded the table to sit at the head. "What I'm about to tell you," he began calmly, "may need to receive special attention and security."

"We'll discuss security and attention after you tell us what the hell is going on," Yates said. He appeared ready to work up a head of steam—his face was already beginning to turn purple—but Bolan silenced him with a look. _Not an equal partnership there,_ I thought.

Mead seemed unperturbed. He went on in his quiet, deliberate, if somewhat anxious way, "We did a chemical analysis, very routine. We assumed the ring would be a metal."

Silence.

"And?" Bolan finally asked. "What is it, if not a metal?"

"We don't know exactly," Mead admitted. "The components are of unknown origin and so far have resisted being broken down into any element or even compound. It is, well... alien." He grimaced at his own word.

Bolan and Yates sat back in their chairs, but Mulder leaned forward. "Does it have _any_ metallic properties or characteristics besides its luster?"

Mead smiled slightly. "It is both malleable and ductile, but it does not conduct electricity. I tested it myself by heating it, stretching it with pliers and such. It doesn't hold any shape you give it. What I mean is, after I let go, it would snap back into a shape of its own accord, a flat, round coin of sorts." He frowned thoughtfully. "The ring—if that's what you want to call it—left a lubricant of some kind on my lab gloves. We're testing that now. Under the microscope, I—"

"Cut to the chase," Yates suddenly said.

"It appears to be organic," Mead said coolly. "It has a cell structure I've never seen before. And what it did to the lab rats..." He shook his head.

"Can we take a look?" Mulder asked.

With a final disapproving glance at Yates, Mead said, "Of course."

xxxx

It wasn't so much a cage as a large aquarium in which half a dozen gray and brown rats ate, scurried, slept. We stood around the table like students waiting for the professor to demonstrate.

Mead put on a glove and took the ring from a plastic bag. Using a couple tools that looked better suited to a dentist's office, he stretched the ring wide enough to slip around one of the rats' necks like a collar.

"This is just more bull—" Yates began when at first nothing seemed to happen.

Suddenly, the collared rat attacked one of the others.

"Look at its eyes," Mulder murmured. As Finler had described, the rat's previously inkdrop eyes had turned reddish-pink.

A bloody fight between the collared rat and its fellow ensued, the other inhabitants of the cage rushing to hide in the corners. After doing what I felt sure was mortal damage to its victim's throat, the collared rat then began to bite at itself. Mead reached it and grabbed it, ignoring the rodent's attempts to bite him, too. After removing the ring, he replaced the exhausted rat.

"I'd say that clears Scully," said Mulder. "Temporary insanity by way of an alien substance."

"But she wasn't wearing the ring the first night," Bolan pointed out. He looked hard at me as if daring me to disagree.

Mulder did it for me. "We don't know that," he said. "If it can change shape, maybe she wasn't wearing it as a ring. Maybe it came into contact with her in some other way or form. And if it's organic, is it mobile?" He turned back to Mead, who was disposing of the deceased rat. "It can move enough to change shape, but can it transport itself any great distance?"

"You're asking if it can walk," said Finler.

"Or crawl or whatever," Mulder said.

We all looked at Mead, who shrugged and said, "We can try..."

xxxx

We waited in the conference room while Mead set things up. In less than half an hour he waved us back into the lab. The aquarium of rats had been divided by a vertical barrier that left less than an inch open at the bottom. All the rats were on one side of the barrier, and on the other was the ring. The rats couldn't get under the barrier to reach it, but if the ring was mobile, it would be able to slip under and get to them.

Six folding chairs surrounded the table. We each sat and waited. And waited. And...

"Either it doesn't move or it's really slow," Finler finally said.

We stared a moment longer. Then Mulder stood and said, "It knows we're here."

"Mulder..."

"We need to leave," he insisted. "Now," he added when no one else moved.

Deciding there was nothing to see anyway and no point it continuing to wait, we all rose to leave. Mulder stopped Mead on the way out, however. "Are there any cameras we can use to monitor this?"

"Cameras run twenty-four hours a day in the labs for security purposes," Mead informed him primly.

"Where are the security monitors?" Mulder asked.

xxxx

After shooing the guard away with our impressive credentials, we stood in the tiny security room and ignored all but one of the screens in front of us. On the one we were interested in, we could see the tank with the rats and the ring. The rats scrabbled; the ring did nothing.

I was asleep on my feet, though I hadn't realized my eyes had actually closed until I heard a gasp and Finler say, "Took it long enough to realize we were gone."

"We have no proof it's sentient," snapped Yates.

I blinked and focused on the screen. The ring, I saw, was no longer a ring but had balled itself into a sphere.

Mulder grunted as the ball began to roll toward the rats' side of the tank. It bumped the barrier. Rolled back. Bumped again. Then began to flatten so as to slip under.

"Jesus," said Bolan. I couldn't tell if he meant it as a prayer or a curse.

Once it had traversed the barrier, the ring (as we continued to think of and call it) became a ball again. It rolled against one of the rats and stopped by its tail. The surprised rat turned and sniffed the object, but finding it neither food nor a threat, chose to ignore it.

The ring then appeared to melt over the rat's tail and reformed itself into the familiar band. The rat had just enough time to sniff it again before the deadly effect set in.

"Unbelievable," Finler breathed.

"We need to call Washington," said Bolan.

"Will I get credit as a researcher?" Mead asked. "I'd like to do further studies..."

The words evaporated around me as I watched the banded rat attack and kill one, then another, of its cohorts. _That was me._ I risked a glance at Mulder, but all his attention was on the monitor. Yet even without looking at me, he knew. Eyes still on the rats, he said, "You're off the hook."

I nodded, watching the bloody, exhausted rat collapse even as it feebly continued to bite at itself. "But who does that leave on it?"


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't think it's from this world, Scully," he told me when we were alone in the car driving back to the hotel.

"Mulder—"

"Remember the file? The rise in UFO reports? And you yourself said it was some way of tagging the victims. We just have to figure out who is doing the tagging."

"Mulder, I may have said the rings were a way someone chose their victims, but I never mentioned extraterrestrials."

"Dana, the doctors can't identify what the rings are made of; that sounds pretty other-worldly to me."

I was reluctant to admit he had a point; I hate to encourage him. "Then what are these aliens hoping to accomplish?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "A test? Likely it's an experiment of some sort."

"I thought you didn't deal in the likely."

He ignored me. "Or maybe the rings themselves are the aliens."

"Little parasitic rings from another planet are dissecting people. This just keeps getting better."

"No..." he agreed with me for once, "something higher is at work here." He paused for thought. "It's like cattle mutilations, only it's people."

"So why the weird behavior?" I asked. "No one has said the patients ever get violent, so why did I?"

"Probably a side effect. These patients are usually on medication. Or," he added, saying it with an exclamation point as a new thought arose, "maybe it's a behavioral experiment and the ring affects everyone differently. Maybe the rings can choose which effect they have."

He seemed to have an answer for everything. "Fine, then here's another question for you: Why did the aliens—if that's what they are," I was careful to add, "leave the rings behind? Especially if the rings are sentient, Mulder, would they leave one of their own on a foreign world?"

"If it was part of the experiment... Or maybe the rings are a lower life form. Maybe they're not sentient."

"That's a lot of maybes, Mulder."

He sighed and, in the absence of sunflower seeds, began to gnaw at his thumb. "I know."

xxxx

I was finally getting the closest thing to sleep I'd had in a while when Mulder pounded on my hotel-room door. "Scully, are you awake?"

"Am now," I muttered. "Just a minute!" I called as I sought my robe.

"Bolan and Yates want us to hand over the file," he said without preamble when I finally wrenched the door open. He looked like he'd fallen asleep in his clothes, and his hair stuck up at odd angles.

"The X-File?"

He nodded. "They're still at the hospital. Get dressed, let's go."

xxxx

We gathered in the familiar waiting room, the X-File tucked protectively under Mulder's arm. He wouldn't let it go without a fight.

"We want the file," Bolan said without introduction.

"I'd like to know how you plan to pursue the case first," said Mulder.

"We're taking the ring back to Washington for further study," Bolan told him. "A couple more agents will arrive to tie up the loose ends here."

"You mean the coverup," Mulder said.

Yates, who had been steadily turning purple, sputtered, "You have no—"

"Cut the crap!" Mulder snapped. "You'll find some nice, tidy explanation to feel the public, maybe some poor doctor to blame. I've seen it done hundreds of times."

"These people need tidy explanations, Mr. Mulder," Bolan said. "They ask for them. We just give them what they want, and what they want is to not be afraid. So we're careful not to scare them. It's part of the job."

"And what kind of lies will you tell them when people keep disappearing, keep dying?" demanded Mulder.

Bolan's voice dropped to a dangerously low tone. "If you don't give us that file, I will charge you with obstruction by withholding information pertinent to a case."

"You're the ones withholding information. These people have a right to know!"

"We can't tell them what we don't know," Bolan insisted. "We have to do the research. Until then, what can we say?"

"But you have no intention of—"

"Gentlemen," I broke in, "this is really our—" I glanced at Mulder and wondered what he thought of my including myself, "field of study. I think—"

"We have our orders," Bolan told me. His gaze went back to my partner. "And you have yours."

Slowly, Mulder pulled the file free from under his arm and handed it over. Then he turned and stalked out of the room, nearly slamming the door in my face in his haste.

xxxx

"Now what?" I asked once we were back in the car and he'd stopped beating the steering wheel with both hands.

Mulder shook his head. "Face it, Scully. We'll never see that file or the ring again. They'd rather bury it and lie to millions of people than allow anyone to learn the truth. _They're_ the ones who are scared. Too scared to explore any further."

"What about the file?" I asked. It was unlike him to let a precious X-File go.

He shrugged. "I copied it."

"And that's it?" I asked, surprised at how nonchalant he had become. "We fly home empty-handed?"

I should have known better, and his expression told me so. "Your contact," I deduced. "He visited you again, didn't he?"

He sighed. "We can't get support on this one, Scully, not after those two other agents—"

"It's my fault," I said. "If all this stuff with the ring hadn't happened, we'd still be on the case. What I want to know is, what makes them think the same won't happen to Bolan and Yates?"

We pulled into the hotel parking area and Mulder huffed a laugh as he threw open his door. "Because they aren't going to work on the case, Scully. They're just going to box it up. And one other thing, just for your general knowledge: I called Danny. There is no Bolan or Yates in the FBI logs."

I slumped against my seat and tried to absorb this new information. "So where does that leave us?" I finally asked. Everything he'd told me pointed to giving this one up, but everything in his body language gave me the impression he had no intention of doing so.

"Well," he said, stepping out of the car, "my contact has something else for us. In Florida. I haven't looked at the file yet, but I know it's outside the Everglades. How do you feel about some time in the tropics?"

I fought free of my seatbelt and climbed out as well. "Sounds nice, but I'm afraid I forgot to pack my bikini."

He smiled. "That's no problem. We're not going."

The red caution lights went off in my head. I studied his face, hoping for some insight, but the man is one hell of a poker player. "Mulder," I said slowly, "what are you planning?"

"I'd tell you now, but you wouldn't respect me in the morning," he said. "I've got some arrangements to make first. Why don't you get some rest; you look like you could use it."

xxxx

"Two tickets to Florida," he announced the next morning, dropping them on my bed. He hadn't even knocked.

I looked up from my laptop. "I thought we weren't going."

"We're not. But they don't know that."

"The only reason you get away with breaking rules is because of whomever this contact of yours is, or whoever he works for. Now you want to double-cross him?"

"A lie, Scully, is most convincingly hidden between two—or more—truths," he reminded me. "The truth is, we have two tickets to Miami and hotel reservations. We're going to check out of this hotel and into the airport, but I have a terrible feeling we may not make our flight. Call it a sixth sense."

"And suppose your contact turns up in Florida only to discover he's been stood up?" I asked.

"We'll still have bought some time."

Exasperation bubbled in me. "For what, Mulder? We don't have the ring, and no one has disappeared since we arrived. We've got nothing to go on, no jurisdiction."

"McPheers wasn't the only one found with a ring," Mulder reminded me, the rest of my lecture an apparent waste.

Still, I picked up the thread. "Were the other victims buried with their jewelry?"

"Only if the families didn't strip them of it."

"But what about as evidence? Surely the local law enforcement wouldn't have missed such an obvious link."

"Sounds like it's time to make friends with Sheriff Daimon," said Mulder.

xxxx

The police station was located downtown, across from the public library and a sandwich shop. It looked like any other small-town station—red brick, gray paint. And like many other small-town stations, this one had a sheriff who was less than thrilled to have the FBI stomping all over his patch. 

We were greeted by a bottle-blonde, gum-smacking admin. Mulder won her over immediately with a smile. _If only the sheriff were a woman_, I thought.

"I'm Special Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully," my partner was saying. "Is Sheriff Daimon in?"

The woman just stared at him, apparently in some kind of trance. After a moment she realized he'd stopped talking. She took another minute to think over his very taxing question. "He's in his office, first door on the left."

"Thanks," I said when Mulder took off like a horse from the gate. I caught up with him just outside the glass that enclosed Daimon's office. Through it we could see a heavy-set man with thinning brown hair yelling into a telephone receiver. "Mulder," I murmured, "maybe this is not the best time."

"With these guys, Scully, there is no best time." He knocked but did not wait for an answer. I cautiously followed him in. After having already experienced the hospitality of the local police, I was in no hurry for another invitation to stay, and making Daimon any angrier than he already appeared to be might have meant a one-way ticket back to my holding cell.

"I'm doing all I can, Jack... Yeah, I will. Goodbye." Daimon slammed down the phone then turned in his chair to face us more directly. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Sp—" Mulder began, but Daimon cut him off.

"I know who you are. Matter of fact, everyone in town probably knows who you are. And we met when you had me and my men dogging through the woods a couple days ago. And you," his blue eyes sought me out from behind my partner, "spent some time downstairs. Are you here for your things? Officer Perryman has them in evidence."

He turned again, showing every sign of dismissing us. Unruffled, Mulder did not move. "Actually, Sheriff, we were wondering something about the investigation we're here in connection with."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"About the rings."

"Rings?"

"Photos show each victim was found wearing a silver ring. I'm sure you noticed."

"This may be Hicksville to you, Mr. Mulder, but we're not so backwater we can't run a proper investigation. You think I got this badge from a candy machine?"

I finally spoke up. "So you have the rings?"

"They're in evidence. Officer Perryman can show you where." He rose from his chair. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have _important_ business."

xxx

Directions to Simon Perryman's office came with the same glassy-eyed gaze from the admin as before. Unlike Daimon's quarters, Perryman's desk was in a poorly lit, cramped corner of the building. A lanky young man, he seemed to have more leg than leg room.

"Howard, sit!" Perryman commanded the German Shepherd that stood and growled when we entered through a doorway that was in need of a door.

After Mulder got through the introductions (uninterrupted this time), Perryman asked what he could do to help.

"For starters, you could show us the evidence room," Mulder said. "My partner would like her things back... And we're interested in some other things, too."

Perryman grinned like an overgrown Dennis the Menace. "Easy enough," he said. Using a key from the chain attached to his belt loop, he unlocked a desk drawer and fished out more keys. Then he stood to lead us out, proving to be just as tall as Mulder. "Follow me."

The only thing in the evidence room that looked like it might have been touched recently was the metal locker against one wall. The rest of the room consisted of dusty shelves lined with warping boxes. Perryman unlocked the cabinet and handed me a clear plastic bag full of tagged items, including my gun. "I believe that's everything. What else did you want to see?"

"The rings found on the hospital victims," said Mulder. "Are they here?"

"Yessir." He rooted in the locker some more then pulled out three more plastic bags, each containing a ring tagged with the victims' names. I eyed them speculatively as he handed the bags to my partner.

"None of the victims' families demanded these be returned?" Mulder asked.

Perryman shook his head. "Not as far as I know. Only a few of us even know about the rings; it was a detail we kept from the press. Wouldn't want to alert or alarm anyone while we investigate."

"Well, the murderer must already know about the rings," I said, "if he or she put them on the victims."

Perryman tilted his head to suggest he saw my point of view but didn't entirely buy in. "Maybe they were part of a club or cult or something."

"That was your line of inquiry?" I asked.

Another head tilt.

Mulder broke in. "What about the first victim? She was wearing a ring in the photos, but at that time there would have been nothing to link that to the case. Was she buried with it?"

"Sheila Barnam," said Perryman in a way that told me he felt we were being disrespectful by not knowing. "You could ask her family, I suppose."

But Mulder's face had gone blank in a way I knew meant his mind was racing. "How many bodies have been found? Starting with Sheila and ending with George?"

"Four," Perryman answered promptly. "The other two were—"

Mulder waved him silent. "And we've got three rings here."

"Sure," said Perryman, "because Sheila's—"

"No," Mulder corrected. "Three because the one the found on George was sent to Washington."

I reached for the bags in his hand, but he beat me to it. "Here," he said, holding one up. "Sheila Barnam." He frowned. "Someone knows more than they're telling."

Perryman looked flustered. I thought hard for a reason Sheila's ring might be in evidence. "Maybe they went back for it when they realized its significance to the case."

"Not without the families knowing," Mulder said. "What reason would they give the Barnams for taking it back?"

I turned to Perryman. "You're sure the families don't know?"

"Pretty sure," he said, looking bewildered. "You don't think—"

"We don't know," Mulder told him, "but we'll find out."


	5. Chapter 5

"Pack some stuff, Scully, we have a plane to not catch."

"Mulder, it's my only suitcase."

"We'll get you another one," he promised.

I sighed. This seemed like an awful lot of work just to snoop around an East Texas town where we weren't wanted and weren't supposed to be. "What about my clothes?"

"You don't have to pack all of it. Just make it look authentic."

"That means my shoes, my makeup case... You don't want to see me without makeup," I warned.

"Some of it can be in your carry-on, and you can keep that," he said. "Come on, Scully, we're going to be late."

Late for a flight we didn't intend to be on? Was that possible?

Of course, with Mulder anything is possible.

xxxx

We drove back from the airport in silence, and I assumed he was piecing together the case in his mind. Meanwhile, I oscillated between worrying about what kind of trouble we were going to be in and mourning the loss of my luggage.

I brightened a little when we reached the city limits and my thoughts turned to a late lunch and maybe a nap. And then Mulder's phone rang.

He glanced at me before answering. The conversation that followed consisted of almost no verbiage on my partner's part, but it ended with him curling his lip and clenching his jaw.

"What?" I asked, unable to believe the Bureau had caught on to our scheme so quickly.

"That was Perryman. Someone else has disappeared."

I fell back against my seat, not keen on a return to the hospital.

"That's not all," he went on. "Arla Maynes was reported missing at 11:00 this morning. Before we left for the airport."

"Then why didn't someone contact us? We were..." I paced myself mentally through our day. "Mulder, we were at the police station at the time."

"The sheriff's phone call," he said.

"Why didn't he tell us?"

"I don't know," he replied, stepping on the gas as he pulled onto the exit ramp that would take us back to East Pine, "but I intend to find out."

xxxx

"What is going on?" I demanded the moment I spotted Sheriff Daimon in the hospital lobby. "Why didn't you report this to us this morning? We were standing right in your office!"

Mulder moved in behind me and placed a staying hand on my shoulder. In a calmer tone, he said, "Sheriff, there are a few things we'd like to ask you about."

Daimon put on an aw-shucks expression, but his eyes gave him away. He was no dumb hick; he just didn't like us. "Well, sir, I'll help you if I can," he said.

"All the bodies that were found—four of the eight victims," Mulder said, "were found in those woods out there, but I haven't seen any effort to search for the ones still missing. Why is that?"

"We did search. And found three. You found the fourth. That's all there was to find."

"So I went back out there," said Mulder, "walked around some more, the chances of me finding any of the other bodies are relatively slim?" It sounded like a challenge, maybe even a threat.

The false stupidity fell from Daimon's face. "I would say so, yes."

"What about Arla Maynes?" I asked. "Do you think her body might be out there?"

"I don't know. Look if you want. I've got a hospital full of live, frightened people—"

"And a forest full of dead ones," Mulder interjected.

Daimon sighed and shook his head. "These people are scared, Mr. Mulder. And it's my job to protect them."

"Well, those bodies may be the only way to do that," Mulder told him. "The rings, Perryman says the families don't know about them."

"That's right," Daimon replied.

"Yet someone knew enough to take the ring off the first victim. When you found Sheila Barnam, did you know the rings would be a common factor?" Mulder asked.

The sheriff's voice dropped to menacing. "What are you implying?"

"We're not implying anything," I said. "We're just asking."

"We found the first two bodies at the same time," Daimon said. "That's how we knew about the rings."

I glanced at Mulder; he looked doubtful. "That wasn't in our file," he said.

"Maybe not," said the sheriff, "but it was in my report. If you'd bothered to read it before jumping into our investigation, you might've learned a few things."

Just then Jack Mead scurried over with the paperwork on Arla Maynes. "She was in for a stroke," he explained. "She was in her bed when the nurse checked on her early rounds..."

"What time was that?" I asked.

"About three. But when Nurse Gaines went in around ten, the bed was empty. We searched the hospital, of course, but it's not like she could get far on her own."

"Dr. Mead," Mulder said, "I thought you were head of the lab."

"Well, yes," Mead agreed, "but because I, you know, know about..." He glanced at Daimon. "It all falls to me."

"We're questioning the staff now," Daimon put in, "but no one seems to have seen or heard anything."

"The woods," Mulder said. "The fresher the body, the better the clues."

xxxx

He was standing at the edge of the forest—again—squinting up at the wall of green before him.

"She's in there, Scully."

It wasn't long before we picked up the trail. We followed the tell-tale path of broken twigs, disturbed leaves, and beaten grass for what felt like forever. My pumps were killing me, and my stomach reminded me that we'd missed lunch. I was about to call for a break when he stopped abruptly mid-stride.

"What?" I asked, craning to see around him.

"Blood. Leads off to the right." He glanced back at me. "Wait here a moment."

I was prepared to object then decided to use the time to slip off my shoes ad flex my toes a bit. As I bent to look for blisters, I noticed some drops of blood on the ground, which wouldn't have been unusual except these led off to the left.

I slipped my shoes back on and looked in the direction my partner had gone. Deciding he could follow my footprints, I began to follow the new trail. It didn't go far, ending in a small clearing. It didn't take long to find the source of the blood either—rips of gray material that might once have been a suit... bits of shirt... and eventually the corpse.

"Oh my God." I turned to shout for Mulder but he beat me to it.

"Scully? Scully!"

"Over here!" I called. "Mulder..." I said when he appeared, out of breath and none too happy, "it's Finler."


	6. Chapter 6

The rings had been removed from the fresh corpses and added to the evidence stash. The bodies of Arla Maynes and James Finler were now stretched out in the hospital morgue after having been thoroughly examined by the coroner and myself. I stood there with Mulder, ready to give him a summary.

"Maynes' body is in keeping with what we've found in the others'; it looks like some sort of dissection. Finler, however, is another story."

"How so?" he asked.

"He wasn't dissected, he was..." I searched for an appropriate word. "Mutilated."

"Animals?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm pretty sure tools of some kind were used, but... It looks like someone carved him up simply because they didn't like him."

"Or saw him as a threat," said Mulder. "The same reason whoever is doing this might have planted a ring on you." He frowned. "Scully, what happened to the ring that was on you?"

"We examined—" I stopped. "No, that was McPheers' ring. The first one must have been taken with my things when they arrested me."

"But it wasn't with your things when you retrieved them. The one found on Finler may be the same one that was planted on you."

I sighed. "Keeping track is like a shell game."

"I'm surprised Bolan and Yates didn't take all the rings when they left."

"That's what we're here to do," Yates announced as he pushed through the swing doors, Bolan towering behind him. "We were going to have Finler bring them, but it looks like he couldn't make it." He gaze fell on the sheeted bodies.

Mulder turned to me, eyes lit with excitement. "That's it, Scully. Someone didn't want him taking the rings—"

"So they killed him," I finished.

"But who?" Mulder asked.

"The murderer?" I suggested. "If he saw us as a threat, he probably saw Finler as one too."

Mulder shook his head. "No, if Finler was leaving, why bother? It was someone who didn't want the rings taken, and if the rings meant anything to the murderer, he wouldn't have left them as evidence to begin with."

I was aware of Bolan's gaze shifting between my partner and me, like a man watching ping pong. But then Yates said, "Perhaps you don't understand. Your jobs are on the line. If you leave now, we might forget about a letter of censure. But if you stay, you're facing probation, maybe even a formal investigation. So I suggest—"

Mulder listened to this lecture, eyes growing steadily brighter as his impatience mounted. "What _I_ suggest is that you shut up and listen a moment. If you take those rings, you could end up dead." He turned back to me. "That leaves anyone investigating this case locally and the lab technicians who know about the ring. What we need now is a motive."

"We can narrow it down a little," I said. "Only two people have unimpeded access to the rings: Perryman and Daimon."

"Someone could have broken into the evidence room," Bolan put in.

I nodded, but Mulder said, "Only someone who could have gotten the keys. No broken locks," he said.

"That would mean knowing where the keys are kept," I said. "Locked in Perryman's desk drawer."

"Also not broken," said Mulder.

"Picking a lock isn't difficult," Bolan said with a hint of a smile. "But what would be the motive for anyone local to not want the rings to leave? If anything, knowing what we know now, you'd think they'd want them gone."

"Law enforcement, yes," Mulder agreed, "but any lab tech who knows the unique nature of the rings might want to continue studying them. Something like that could make a career."

"But why kill Finler?" I asked. "If they broke in to get one ring, why not just take them all? No," I said. I felt sure I was right. "This was done by someone close to the investigation. Someone who, if they wanted the rings, could access them at any time—as long as the rings stayed in evidence."

We fell silent, waiting for the next brilliant lightning bolt to illuminate us, but nothing struck. I checked my watch. Almost dinner time, and Mulder and I still had to find a new hotel.

"Maybe we should take a break," I said. "Meet again in the morning?"

Bolan readily agreed, Yates more reluctantly. I had to practically drag Mulder out; once he has the case in his teeth, he doesn't let go.

We went to the hotel first, one a little nicer than its predecessor. I suddenly realized we'd be footing the bill; the federal government would not be picking up the tab for two renegade agents.

I had just set my luggage down when the knock came. "I'm going to grab us some dinner," Mulder announced without preface. "Why don't you wait here, get some rest?"

"Anything but Burger Booth," I said.

Ages later he returned with Chinese takeout. "Did you _go_ to China?" I asked, my stomach growling. "Where—?" But then I saw the file tucked under his arm.

"I stopped by the sheriff's office and sweet-talked my way into a copy of the report."

I pictured the blonde and rolled my eyes.

"I was hoping you'd cross-reference the patients' medical histories, see if there's any connection, any way to guess who might be next," he went on.

"Mulder, I'm sure they've tried that," I said. "If there is a connection, it'll be in the report."

"They could have missed something." He looked ridiculously hopeful.

I sighed and accepted the folder. "And what are you going to do?"

"Make a quick call to the Gunmen to find out the latest UFO activity in East Texas." He already had my hotel room phone receiver in hand.

"We have to pay for that," I reminded him. I ate with chopsticks in one hand and turned pages of the report with the other. Absorbed as I was, I didn't pay much attention to Mulder's phone conversation until he asked, "Scully, you want to say hello to Frohike?"

"No," I said without looking up.

"Uh, she's busy," I heard him say, "but she sends her love."

"Mulder!"

He hastily hung up. "Find anything?" he asked me.

"Maybe. It says here that Sheila Barnam's body was found with Gerald Todd's. Daimon was telling the truth on that score."

"Then that leaves Perryman," Mulder said.

"But why?"

"I think it's the chemical the rings secrete," he said. "I think it's addictive."

"Based on what, exactly?" I asked.

"You," he said. "Scully, every time you've come near one of those rings, you've been transfixed. Don't say anything," he added quickly, holding up a hand, "just remember addicts are the first to deny they have a problem."

I let that go. "And Perryman?"

"I'm betting he was first on the scene."

I flipped back a few pages. "You're right. He was on duty the day the hunter found the first bodies. Until then, no one had suggested searching the woods for the missing patients. And Perryman was first to notice the rings." I paused, considering. "But even if you're right, Perryman would have had to touch the rings. And we know that causes a violent reaction."

"_Wearing_ the ring causes a person to become violent. Perhaps that's due to prolonged exposure to whatever drug the rings secrete."

"So you're saying Perryman killed Finler because he's addicted to that drug," I said, just trying to get it straight in my mind.

"Yes."

"And this is what we're going to tell Bolan and Yates?"

"That, and that there have been increased UFO sightings in this area. I'm now thoroughly convinced we're dealing with an extraterrestrial intelligence."

Not that he'd ever been hard to convince, but I kept my mouth shut on that one. "The rings? We still don't know how intelligent they actually are, if at all."

"I think there's something bigger behind them," he said. He frowned. "The bodies that haven't been found," he said abruptly. "If Daimon has been telling the truth, they're not out there in the woods. Which means someone—or something—else is responsible for their disappearances."

I waited.

"The murderer wouldn't just change his M.O. once in a while," Mulder insisted. "Why should he if no one is close to catching him?"

"Who knows what homicidal aliens do," I said.

He either missed the jab or ignored it. "But nothing like it occurred in the other cases in our file."

"So you think a completely different murderer killed the others," I said. "Perryman?"

"You said yourself that the ring on George McPheers' body, what, induced you to put it on?" His speech became more rapid as his mind raced ahead. "It hasn't done that to anyone else that we know of because everyone else has handled the rings with gloves or in plastic bags. But once you've touched the ring—"

"It has a power over you." We looked at each other. Mulder's eyes shone with excitement, but I still didn't see us as any further along. "But, Mulder, how did Perryman get them out of the hospital?"

"Maybe whoever or whatever is behind the rings is using him."

"So then how did he, she, or it get them out?" I pressed. "It seems to me aliens—if that's what we're dealing with—have the technology to, I don't know, lift them out. What use do they have for Perryman?" I paused. "What we're really looking for is whoever is using the rings to tag the hospital patients."

He nodded slowly, some of the excitement ebbing from his expression.

"We can discuss it with Bolan and Yates in the morning," I said. "Finish your dinner and get some sleep."

But I knew he wouldn't rest. He'd wrestle with the problem until he had an answer. The unfortunate thing is, half the time we don't have an answer, and the other half we don't have a very good one.

xxxx

I was never going to get any sleep.

The clock on the night table told me it was just past four in the morning as I fumbled for the phone. "Hello?" I mumbled.

"They just arrested Perryman," my partner informed me without introduction.

I was instantly awake, clicked on the lamp. "What?! What for?"

"They've taken him downtown," Mulder went on, ignoring my question. "Bolan called me; he wants to meet us there."

"Bolan? Mulder, what's going on?"

"Perryman attacked Yates."

"Yates?"

"He's dead."


	7. Chapter 7

"I didn't have a clue as to what he was planning," Bolan told us when we walked into the police department lobby.

"What who was planning?" I asked.

"Yates." Bolan led us down to the all-too-familiar holding cells. "We found the rings in his room, as well as a ticket for a flight back to D.C. His plane would have left at five this morning."

"Then he must have gone through Perryman when he collected the rings from evidence," I said.

"One of the rings must've gotten to Perryman somehow," said Bolan. "But why go all the way across town to attack Yates? Can the rings consciously decide who to kill?" He looked at Mulder.

"Anyone who tries to take those rings ends up dead," Mulder answered flatly. We came to a halt outside a steel door and waited for a guard to let us into the cell block. "I have a few theories," Mulder went on with a glance at me, "but I'd like to talk to Perryman first."

We followed the guard past the mostly empty enclosures. The light was dim, and I didn't see Daimon until we were almost nose-to-nose. He stood with his hands on his hips, watching our approach. Although his stance was no-nonsense, I could tell by his eyes that he was deeply troubled.

"If you know something," Daimon said as we gathered in front of Perryman's lock-up, "I think you should tell me now." He locked gazes with Mulder, and my partner licked his lips and turned to look at the prisoner. He seemed about to speak, but then his cellular phone rang. Sighing, he gave everyone an apologetic grimace and stepped away to take the call.

For a long moment, we all just stared at the man behind the bars. Perryman sat with his head down, arms on his knees, hands dangling. He looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Finally Daimon spoke again. "I haven't gotten anything out of him; he's not talking."

Taking a step toward the bars, I said softly, "Simon?" No response. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to," I continued, "but I think I know what you're going through. The rings, they're... intoxicating. Addictive."

He lifted his head at that, green eyes wide and bloodshot. Slowly, he stood and came to the bars, eyes never leaving my face. I wanted to move back, look away, but I couldn't risk losing the tenuous connection I'd made, else he might never tell us what he knew.

"You've tasted it, too," he said. I nodded. "Then you know I didn't mean to do it. It wasn't me."

"You've got to help us prove that," I told him. "You've got to tell us what you know about the rings."

"I don't know anything!" He broke away to begin pacing his cage. "I found the rings when I found the bodies, and I made the mistake of touching them. That's all there is to it."

I nodded again. "Okay, I believe you. You became addicted, and that's not your fault. You didn't know what you were dealing with when you handled the rings. But you _did_ consciously kill Finler and Yates to keep them from taking the rings back to Washington. Am I right?"

Perryman collapsed back onto the small bed and hung his head, and I wondered if I'd pushed too hard. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Gently, Mulder guided me away from the bars.

"They didn't find a ring on Perryman when they caught him attacking Yates," he said into my ear.

I glanced back at the officer. "So he wasn't under the ring's influence. He's just a poor junkie."

"That 'junkie' has murdered two federal agents," Bolan broke in, then turned to continue his conversation with Daimon when Mulder glared.

"He must be getting pretty desperate," I muttered. "He didn't even bother to make Yates' death look like the others. Who was on the phone?"

My change of subject made Mulder look uncomfortable. "We better wrap this up fast; people are beginning to wonder why we're not in Florida."

"Well, we're not getting anywhere here," I said, gesturing toward the cell. "He doesn't know anything."

"I think he does," Mulder countered. "He just doesn't know he knows it."

xxxx

Perryman consented the the hypnosis; at that point he was willing to try anything to clear himself. I could tell from Bolan's expression that he was less than enthusiastic, and Daimon appeared downright contemptuous.

We did it that afternoon in an interrogation room. Mulder had called in a doctor he deferred to regularly when dealing with abduction cases. Doctor Richard Gavin had flown in and Mulder had picked him up at the airport while I caught up on sleep.

Dr. Gavin was ready to go immediately; we didn't even pause for lunch. He and Perryman were in the interrogation room while the rest of us observed through the one-way mirror. The starting questions were easy: "What's your name?" "What color is your hair?" When Gavin was satisfied that Perryman was ready, he asked him to go back to the beginning.

Most of it was as we'd surmised. Perryman told of sleeping in the evidence room to be near the rings. "I never actually wore them. I didn't want to be linked to the murders."

"Did you murder anyone?" Gavin asked.

"Only Yates."

"What about Finler?"

"I put a ring in his pocket."

"Where did you get the ring?"

"From Agent Scully's personal effects. I found it when they brought her things to evidence. It was like I could sense it."

"And the bodies that haven't been found?" asked Gavin. "What did you do with them?"

"Nothing."

Gavin's tranquil tone broke slightly. "Then where are they?"

"Still gone."

"Gone where?"

Beside me, Mulder leaned forward for the answer.

"I don't know," the deputy said. "Wherever the light takes them."

Gavin paused, seemingly trying to formulate a new question. "You've seen this light?"

"Everyone has."

"What causes it? Do you know who it is?"

I understood 'who' to refer to the murderer.

"I don't... Jack would know. He said I could keep the rings if I just got rid of the feds. I didn't want to kill anybody, I..."

"Jack who, Simon?" Gavin asked.

"Mead."

"Mead?" I repeated incredulously, turning to Mulder.

"It makes perfect sense," he said, eyes not moving from the session. Then he wavered, looked at me. "The first night at the hospital he could easily have slipped a ring into your pocket; you would never have noticed. He's not the kind of guy you remember."

He was right. We'd gone down corridor after corridor, passed dozens of people in white. Any one of them could have been Mead.

"I just had to keep them from taking the rings," said Perryman. "It was supposed to be easy."

"It's okay," Gavin soothed. "Tell me more about Jack Mead. How does he know about the rings?"

"They're his."

"That does it," said Daimon. "It's about time we had a talk with Jack Mead."


	8. Chapter 8

"Wait," Mulder said to Daimon. "I think this deserves further study. Do you think the people of East Pine would be willing to help in our investigation?"

"Seeing as they'd like the killing to stop," Daimon replied dryly. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

"If Perryman's seen lights, others may have too."

"Now wait a minute," Daimon said. "You want them all to go under this hocus-pocus?" He gestured at the glass. "They'll laugh you out of town."

"Let them laugh," said Mulder. "They'll do it for laughs if for no other reason."

They locked gazes, then Daimon nodded slowly. "Okay, I'll arrange a notice in the paper; anyone interested can come here tomorrow afternoon."

"In the meantime," I said, "what about Mead?"

"Let us talk to him," Mulder told Daimon and Bolan. They reluctantly agreed that all of us turning up at Mead's door would send him on the run, so Mulder and I headed for the hospital alone.

We flashed our badges at the front reception desk for no real reason; they knew who we were. Mulder asked where we could find Mead and we were directed to the doctor's office.

"We have to find proof of his connection with the rings," I said as I followed Mulder down the seemingly interminable halls.

"What if he's not creating them?" Mulder asked.

"He's got to be," I said. "He probably rigged the lab tests..." But I sounded uncertain even to myself. We were supposed to be getting closer to the answer, but things felt more confused than ever.

"Yes, Scully," Mulder said, "he rigged the rings to move."

I would have scolded him for his tone, but I already have to play mother to him more than I'd like, so I satisfied myself with scowling at his back. All the turns in the hallway were making me start to feel dizzy, disoriented. Finally, Mulder stopped at a door. I swayed on my feet so that he reached out a hand to steady me. "You okay?"

I started to nod, but the office door opened. "Oh!" Mead said, drawing back. "Agent Mulder, Scully." He shook each of our hands in turn, his palms clammy with sweat, then immediately produced a handkerchief and began wiping his hands and forehead as he ushered us inside.

"Have a seat," he said. The office was eerily bare: no pictures, no plants, and no windows. Just the two chairs facing the desk and a tall filing cabinet in one corner.

Mulder eased into one chair, and I all but flopped into the other. My partner frowned slightly in my direction before addressing Mead. "We just have a couple more questions about the rings."

"Anything I can— Is she all right?" Mead asked abruptly.

"Dana?" Mulder asked.

"I think maybe I need a drink of water," I said, leveraging myself none too gracefully to my feet. "I'll just—"

But I never made it to the door.

xxxx

I woke up on a waiting room couch. Mulder, who was perched on the arm by my feet, smiled when my eyes opened.

I sat up. "Where's Mead?"

"He had business to attend to, so I told him we'd catch him later."

His choice of words was not lost on me. "Only if we can get something solid against him. Somehow I don't think the testimony of a hypnotized deputy would count for much in court."

"That's okay; I think we've got what we need."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

His grin broadened. From somewhere inside his coat, he brought out a baggie containing a bit of white linen. Mead's handkerchief.

After a moment's thought, I understood. "If he's been working with whatever chemical the rings secrete, it may have rubbed off on his handkerchief," I said. Sometimes I think better aloud.

"Something like that." Mulder got to his feet and so did I. "Let's get this to the lab."

We couldn't trust the hospital labs, not with Mead around, so we took our prize to the police lab instead. After (unnecessarily, I thought) advising the techs there to handle the fabric only while wearing gloves, we headed up to the main offices. There we found Daimon and a couple of his men attempting to impose order on chaos. The entire town appeared to be in the lobby; having gone the back way into the labs, we'd missed the crowd on the way in.

"Folks!" Daimon was shouting, "the tests aren't scheduled to begin until tomorrow morning! If you want to participate—" A murmur went up from the masses. Daimon raised his voice further. "If you want to participate, get in line and sign up for a time. The clipboards are at the desk."

"What's going on?" I asked the sheriff as his officers started organizing people into something that might have been a line.

"Someone at the paper must have leaked," he answered with evident disgust. "Ad doesn't even run until tomorrow, and look at this."

"Pretty good turnout," Mulder remarked. "And I don't hear anyone laughing." When Daimon only scowled, Mulder said, "Maybe we could start tonight. I can call Gavin..." He waited for Daimon's reaction.

The sheriff only shrugged. "Go ahead. I'll announce that anyone who wants to wait around and do it tonight can."

Mulder nodded and stepped a polite distance away to use his phone.

Suddenly Daimon turned to me with the air of someone who's just had a thought. "Get anything from Mead?"

I sighed, not wanting to explain my frailty, so all I said was, "We got his handkerchief."

"His handkerchief."

"Agent Mulder believes that if Mead is behind the rings or connected to them, traces of the chemical they secrete may be found on his handkerchief."

"I guess so," Daimon said doubtfully.

Mulder returned. "Gavin is on his way. I called Bolan and left a message at his hotel desk." With a glance at his watch, he added, "He's probably at dinner."

"Wish I was," I muttered. I'd probably fainted from lack of food.

Daimon said, "We can have something sent over from Janna's Diner. Looks like it's going to be a long night."

xxxx

Twenty-two people stayed for hypnosis that evening, and every one of the first few we listened to mentioned seeing lights in the sky late at night. Then word came up from the lab that the tests were done.

"Well, as done as they can be," police tech Joseph Stightman told us. "They're inconclusive."

"In what way?" I asked.

"In that we have no idea what this stuff is," Stightman said.

"Could it be some new synthetic chemical?"

He shook his head. "I can't see how. If it were, we'd be able to break it down into whatever it's made of, but we can't seem to do that."

"May I?" Mulder asked, holding out his hand for the file Stightman held. I perused over Mulder's arm, but I didn't have to look long to see that the notes were almost identical to the ones from the hospital's tests on the rings.

"Well, there's the connection," I said.

Mulder didn't answer. He shut the folder, handed it back to Stightman, thanked him, and left.

"Mulder!" I called after him. I had to walk three times as fast to catch up, and in heels. "That's it, isn't it?" I asked.

He stopped and turned to me, his expression telling me he was going to make things more complicated than I liked. "We saw Mead wipe his forehead with that handkerchief."

"Yes," I said warily.

"But they found no sweat on it. At least no normal, _human_ sweat."

"What are you saying?" Not because I didn't know, but I wanted to hear him say it.

"Mead sweats that chemical! He's not creating it, he's made of it!"

"Mulder, that's impossible."

"Why?"

I only shook my head. "Eve if it was true, we can't arrest someone for sweating!"

"We can if he's using that sweat to commit murder."

I sighed and went back to the pertinent, confirmed facts. "We have the connection between him and the chemical, _whatever_ it may be. The next step is to question him."

We went to tell Daimon where we were going and found him in the observation room watching the hypnosis proceedings. He looked bored, or tired, or both, his blue eyes drooping.

"So you got something from that handkerchief?" he asked.

I glanced at Mulder. "We think so. But we're approaching this as an interview to see if we can get anything more."

"I'll go with you," Daimon offered.

"No," Mulder said with surprising austerity. "We don't want to gang up on him, scare him off. Besides, you're needed here. These are your people. Mead is something else."

And without giving Daimon a chance to answer, we left.

xxxx

It was late, and I wasn't sure Mead would even still be at the hospital, but we tried there first anyway. "Boy, he's popular tonight," the girl at reception said. "Mr. Bolan just asked for him, too. He's down in the la—"

"Thanks," Mulder said, cutting her short, and took off.

"Bolan?" I asked between deep breaths as I attempted to keep pace with my partner. "What's he doing here?"

Mulder didn't answer. We turned a corner into a vacant hall. From somewhere ahead came the echoing of footsteps on the linoleum. It had to be Bolan.

The corridors in the lab were cut into gridded intersections. Mulder stopped at one to listen. When I threw him a questioning look, he said softly, "Go around that way." He motioned straight and indicated he would go left to see if we could cut Bolan off.

We split up.

I passed a couple more intersections but saw no one. I turned left with the thought of meeting Mulder on the far side. The footfalls were fainter. I paused to listen, trying to pinpoint their location, but then they stopped entirely. Had Mulder caught up with Bolan and stopped him? Or had they gotten to the lab?

I heard Mulder shout, "No!"

A gunshot.

I ran.


	9. Chapter 9

Bolan and Mulder were standing in the doorway of Mead's lab. My partner had a look of disbelief on his face; Bolan appeared impassive. Both of them stared in silent contemplation at something on the floor I could not see.

Slowly, Mulder turned to Bolan. "Who are you?" he asked. "Who are you working for?"

"This case is closed, Mr. Mulder. As far as anyone is concerned, you were never here. And in the future, I suggest you do as you're told. You can start by going to Florida; your hotel is holding two tickets to Miami. You leave first thing in the morning."

"And this?" Mulder took a small step back, and I could see Mead on the floor of the lab, gunshot wound to his chest, and his shirt soaked not with blood but oozing silver liquid of the kind the rings were made of. The sight of it made my thoughts feel fuzzy and numb.

"We'll take care of it," Bolan said. 

"You mean you'll cover it up," said Mulder.

"I suggest you get her out of here," Bolan told him. I only realized he meant me when Mulder took my arm to lead me away from the scene.

"And Mr. Mulder," Bolan called down the corridor after us, "don't worry about dealing with Daimon. I'll handle that."

"I bet you will," Mulder muttered, but he did not answer Bolan directly, and we left the hospital with no further discussion.

xxxx

We were up bright and early the next morning with our carry-on luggage for the plane. It wasn't until we were halfway to the airport that Mulder even said a word.

"I went back to the hospital last night."

I turned sharply to look at him.

"Nothing in Mead's office or lab," he went on. "Popular story is he skipped town, though no one can say they saw him leave the hospital."

"What about Bolan?" I asked.

"No one at the hospital will admit to seeing him or hearing a gunshot. And of course the security cameras suffered some technical difficulties. I took the liberty of calling Daimon, just to say goodbye, of course." He smiled thinly. "It seems Bolan did at least pick up the rings."

"Perryman?"

He gave a small shrug. "They'll slap him with insanity and shunt him into rehab. For all the good that will do."

It was better than prison, I supposed.

I jumped a little when Mulder's cellular phone rang. But he didn't answer it, and it eventually stopped.

"Your contact?" I suggested.

He pulled into a parking space in front of the rental car agency. "Come on, Scully. I'll take you to Disney World."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that this was written when I was in high school and published in _Texas Extra_ fanzine in 1997. I've made small changes as I transcribed, fixing some juvenile mistakes. Much thanks to my friend Tara and her mother Lynn who helped me with this story waaaay back when. This one wouldn't exist without them.


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